


Mr Holmes: Arc One

by HeadsEmpty_NoThoughts_CarGone_ (Zanchev)



Series: Mr Holmes [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Harry Potter is Sherlock Holmes, Nightmares, Sherlock Being Sherlock, mention of dead bodies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-04-12 18:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21654331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanchev/pseuds/HeadsEmpty_NoThoughts_CarGone_
Summary: Armed with a new identity and government funding, Sherlock Holmes is released upon Muggle London and pointed towards the nearest corpse.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Mr Holmes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1537879
Comments: 32
Kudos: 198
Collections: Fav_HP





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This Arc takes place about six years after 'The Beginning'.

_ Cold, cruel eyes looked on dispassionately as Harry screamed and thrashed. Cold hands clutched at his clothes, his skin, dragging him backwards into the dark. _

_ "No! No! Please!" Harry screamed and screamed. Begged. Pleaded. "Help me! Ron, Hermione, anyone please help me!" _

_ "It's for the best," the voices whispered, a cacophony of damnation. "You're too dangerous." _

_ Harry sobbed, alone but for the cold, clammy hands that threw him to the floor and locked him in the dark. He screamed, the whispers getting louder, louder. _

_ "For your own good, too dangerous, too different, FREAK..." _

\---

Sherlock sat bolt upright in his bed, panting. He glanced around, every detail burying into his brain, calming him with emotionless, unfeeling data. He saw the time and groaned, rubbing at his face.

He needed a cigarette.

He dragged himself from the bed - he'd never sleep more now - and pulled a nicotine patch from under the skull he'd pilfered from his first case, slapping it to his arm and moving to his kitchen. He dodged the severed hand hanging from his ceiling fan and began to make himself a cup of tea.

His phone pinged, and Sherlock flipped it open. It was a text from Mycroft. Must be a meeting - dentists are hardly open at three in the morning.

**[Have you found a new flat yet? -MH]**

Sherlock huffed. The idea of moving flats was ridiculous. He'd been fine here for four years, why change now? The fact that he'd spoken to Mrs Hudson (an old case; fun but painfully easy) and had a flat on Baker Street ready for him was completely beside the point. He flicked a text back, hoping it buzzed at an awkward point in Mycroft's business.

**[Have a place lined up. Go away. -SH]**

Sherlock sipped at his tea and sat on his table, poking a petri dish with his toe. He was bored again. The nightmares and memories always got worse when he was bored. His phone pinged again.

**[You must get a flat mate this time. It will decrease potentially unwanted attention. -MH]**

Sherlock groaned. He hated people; they were always so boring and petty and selfish. So _ normal _ . At least Mycroft was ruthless, and Mrs Hudson had biscuits. Mycroft was right, of course, but flatmates meant no magic. And talking.

**[If I must. Meanie. -SH]**

Sherlock cleaned up after himself and fetched his coat. It was too boring here. He had to go, get his mind working again. Maybe go visit that Stamford bloke - he always talked to lots of people. Sherlock glanced outside and frowned. Waiting until daylight was probably a good idea.

Sherlock pulled on his coat and scarf, before he took his riding crop out from the freezer, snapping it against his palm. Time to visit Molly.

\---

**[Found a flat mate yet? -MH]**

Sherlock muttered viciously under his breath, throwing his phone onto his discarded scarf and turning back to the body in front of him. He began to strike the hide of the -  _ male, six foot two, estimated fourty five point seven years old, married twelve years three months divorced after two children and three affairs unsatisfactory job premature ejacul - _

Sherlock gave a final whip of the crop and shook his head roughly. He was bored again. His Sight was acting up. It always did when he was bored.

He turned to smile at Molly, who was staring at him. He had seen Stamford earlier, and anticipated a result approximately four point two hours from their meeting, so he had settled into the morgue for some casual experiments. He accepted Molly's offer to make coffee and moved to the lab.

He was searching through a series of his own personal samples, looking at the reaction of alcohol in both his and a muggle's blood. The muggle didn't even notice him take his samples - pathetic. His phone pinged, and Sherlock flipped it out.

**[Sherlock, I expect a flat mate by the end of the day. -MH]**

Sherlock swore. That was a Serious Business text. It had his name and everything. He sent back an acknowledgement, well aware that he was only one or two away from a Deep Shit text, or worse - an ‘I'm Telling Mummy’ text.

Sherlock smirked to himself; referring to the Queen as 'Mummy' was a spot of genius on Mycroft's part. As the only one in charge of the two of them, it turned out that they had to report to her often. Of course, talking about the Queen like that in public was out of the question, naturally. So Mycroft, seeing as they were playing Happy Family, came up with the idea to call her 'Mummy'. Her Majesty approved - even once tried to get Sherlock to call her that to her face - and the idea stuck.

Tucking his phone into his jacket pocket, Sherlock turned back to his samples. The door opened and Sherlock glanced up and bit back a smug smile. Right on schedule.

Stamford walked in, followed by a limping man with a heavy duty walking stick. Sherlock winced in sympathy. He too had seen war. The man was young, recently off duty, shot but not in the leg. Sherlock would put money on that limp being psychosomatic. The man was -  _ tired, PTSD, caring eyes, practiced movements, steady hands,  _ ** _doctor _ ** _ - _

Sherlock shook his head; the Sight was getting out of hand. It had been too long since he watched magic. He hated the Mage Sight sometimes. It was designed to See magic and it's intricacies, not be wasted in the Muggle world. Without magic to examine the Sight lent itself instead to picking out minute details in the everyday, mundane things that surrounded him. It was useful, of course, Sherlock was able to make better deductions and figure out problems that others wouldn’t even notice to begin with. At times like this, however, it was more of a nuisance than anything else. Sherlock sighed softly, but returned his attention to Stamford and Mr Doctor.

"Can I borrow your phone?" he asked. Stamford was forgetful, never had his charged, leaving... yes. Caring Doctor to the rescue. He took the phone and sent off a nonsensical text to Mycroft. Serves him right, let him try and find a code in that!

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock ignored Stamford's smile and kept looking at the doctor. His hands brushed over the phone, and the details buried themselves into his mind -  _ alcoholic, sibling, recently separated, wanting to keep in touch but as stubborn as Ron - _

Sherlock shut the thought down and threw himself into his conversation, analysing the good doctor John Watson furiously, but smiling faintly when Watson said he was ‘amazing’. He'd forgotten how nice it was to be honestly praised. Sherlock pushed away the sentiment by launching into a flat mate spiel.

"I play the violin at all hours, hope you don't mind - helps me think. I believe flatmates should know the worst of each other, yes?" Sherlock smiled again, this time obviously fake; if only that  _ was _ the worst of him. John seemed a bit perplexed, and Sherlock heard him stutter over the buzz of a new text. He pulled out his phone.

**[Explain. - MH]**

Sherlock smiled. It had taken dear Mycroft longer to figure that out than he'd thought it would. Slow. Sherlock stood, sweeping his coat and scarf into his arms just as Molly came in with coffee.

"Thanks, Molly, I'm off!" he smiled, ignoring her faintly melancholic nod. "Pleasure to meet you Doctor Watson. I've found a flat I think you'll like, see you tomorrow."

He heard Watson splutter some questions as he left, and he laughed to himself, pulling on his coat. He ducked back into the room and rattled off the answer, enjoying his new flatmate’s gape.

"We'll meet at noon on the dot, the address is 221B Baker Street, and my name is Sherlock Holmes. See you tomorrow, Doctor Watson."

He swept out of the hospital, grinning widely. He'd move out to tonight, get things set up with Mrs Hudson... Sherlock pulled his phone out and sent dear Mycroft a text. Things were coming together well.

\---

**[Found a flat mate. I like him. - SH]**

Mycroft sighed at the text. He hoped this 'him' would be able to deal with Potter - no, Sherlock - because God knew he couldn't. He called in his secretary. 

He'd need to meet this flatmate.


	2. Chapter Two

John Watson looked around the cluttered flat with a faint smile. It was a nice place - he could see himself enjoying his military retirement here, once it was tidied up a bit. He glanced at the other man, Sherlock Holmes, and shook his head slightly. The younger man was wired, so tense John could almost smell it.

"It's nice, I like it," John offered, smiling when Sherlock relaxed. It was sweet, really, the way he tried to hide how much he cared.

"Thought you might, it's why I already moved in."

John blinked, then looked around. All this stuff was Sherlock's. It wasn't being moved out. Right. Sherlock seemed to know what he was thinking and began bustling about, talking about tidying up. John chuckled to himself. He reckoned he could like it here.

Sherlock seemed nervous, like he was expecting John to yell or leave or something. John wondered just how often this man was rejected for his gifts to behave this way - and what amazing gifts they were! He hadn't seen anyone deduce so much from so little since -

But that was a train of thought John wasn't willing to go down. He shook his head clear of memories of long ago and made himself focus on the now. Now, Sherlock seemed very excited.

"Come on, John!"

Before he quite knew what was going on, John was being swept away in a cab with Sherlock to - a crime scene?!

John swore to himself as his blasted cane got in the way of his being able to simply duck under the police tape. Sherlock - almost absentmindedly - lifted it for him, ducking under after him and quickly taking the lead on the way to the building. John was about to follow when he heard it. That hated word.

Freak.

He saw Sherlock pause infinitesimally, so slightly that no one else would notice. But John knew, somehow, that that word was important to Sherlock, the same way it was important to -

Again. Not that road.

Regardless, John detested the F word, and made sure to give the smug woman his most fearsome _‘I kill people for a living, don't tempt me’_ glare on his way to follow Sherlock. If the woman has backed up a few steps and whimpered a bit, well John would deny his sense of smug satisfaction until the day he died.

He caught up in time to be fitted in a blue plastic suit and shoved towards the stairs. John looked between his cane and the multiple flights of steps, and cursed softly. A chuckle behind him had John spinning to see Sherlock looking amused. John rolled his eyes at his new flatmate, and followed him up the stairs.

His psychologist had told him to find a hobby, after all.

\---

Pink. Pink everywhere.

John fought the urge to cover his eyes against the garish colour, instead choosing to watch the dark coat swirling about Sherlock's thin legs as he swept around the crime scene like a wizard or a vampire or something. Sherlock knelt beside the body, gleaning from a ring and some tiny spots of mud a whole theory on how the woman came to be where she was. John couldn't fault Sherlock his conclusions, as much as he couldn't fathom how the man had reached them. 

Sherlock moved with a grace better suited to ballet, or a battlefield. Light steps, total control over every muscle in his body, tightly wound and poised to strike in any direction. So much like the bomb survivors and Prisoners of War they'd rescued in the Army. He couldn't help but follow Sherlock as he took the city by storm.

So caught up in the chase was John, he hadn't even noticed he'd left his cane behind until that man from the restaurant - the one who'd thought he and Sherlock were dating - had returned it. John stared at the stick. He'd been so stupidly dependent on it, for weeks. Why had he let such a pitiful object - such a small fear - get the best of him like that?

And why had it taken Sherlock Bloody Holmes to break him out of it? How had he broken him out of it?

John soon left such thoughts behind him along with the cane as Sherlock blew through 221B Baker Street and back into the fray like a cyclone of sarcasm and ingenuity. John grinned to himself as he joined the adventure wholeheartedly. 

He hadn't had this much fun in years.

It wasn't until a lull in the action that John had a chance to think about his new flat - and his new roommate. He was no stranger to sharing bunks - army barracks and boarding school had beaten any need for privacy out of him long ago. He knew how to hide some of his bigger quirks in plain sight - though with Sherlock, he would probably have to get inventive. He was pondering his new situation when a phone rang.

Across the street.

John glanced around, but saw no one looking to take the call. He sighed, crossed the road, and took the phone off the cradle as he closed the booth.

"John Watson."

John was on instant alert. He knew that oily tone of voice well. Politician, smoothness and silent strikes, like a snake. He waited.

"It would seem we have a common acquaintance, Dr Watson," the voice slithered down the phone line. "I find myself curious about you, and your interest in one Sherlock Holmes."

"What -" John was interrupted.

"Dr Watson, I have eyes on you at any moment in any place. I know where you're spending your days and with whom. Do not insult my considerable intellect with playing dumb."

John scowled, but kept silent. The voice continued.

"Excellent. Now, if you would be so kind, I'd like to get to know you a bit better. Get in."

"Get in where?" John bit out, glancing around. His only response was a sleek black car gliding to a stop right beside the phone box he was in. John sighed, hung up, and slid into the car only to come face to face with a pretty young woman. He gave a polite smile.

"Hello, I'm John Watson," he offered his hand. The woman eyed it, then him, with a cocked eyebrow.

"I know."

John took back his rejected hand and leaned back, wondering just what the hell he'd gotten himself into this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all my wonderful readers, comment-givers, and kudos-leavers!! You're all amazing!
> 
> -Z

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to everyone who has left kudos and comments on the previous work, it never fails to make me smile!!  
-Z


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